


A Light

by yaycoffee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus buys his first pack of cigarettes in ten years on the night that Sirius dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the rt_challenge, prompt #10.
> 
> None of the ships are overt--it's pre-Remus/Tonks, allusions to past Remus/Sirius.

Remus buys his first pack of cigarettes in ten years on the night that Sirius dies.   
  
When he takes his first drag, he can taste the sharp bite of nicotine and winces as his lungs protest, but after his second drag, he wonders why he _ever_ gave it up in the first place.   
  
Molly won't let him smoke in the house, so one week and two days after Sirius dies, he walks to the pub. He can't bring himself to sit at _that_ table, so he takes a seat at the bar instead.  
  
He is vaguely aware of someone taking the seat next to him, but it isn't until she says, "Oi. Gotta light?" that he notices bubble gum pink hair framing a heart-shaped face.   
  
He flicks his lighter, and he watches as the flame makes her whole face light up, her hair orange. She takes a deep drag before blowing out a long, white stream of smoke over the top of his head. He lights another cigarette for himself.   
  
Tonks smiles at him, and he thinks he returns it, but he's not quite sure his face remembers how to move that way.   
  
"That will kill you, you know," she says.  
  
"Will it? I hadn't heard." Remus pauses. "Will it?" he says again, but at a whisper this time. He huffs bitterly, takes another drag.  
  
Tonks says nothing, but she places a hand on the side of his face, tracing a cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. What he thinks is that her thumb feels small and unfamiliar against his skin, but she does it again, and his own hand comes to rest on top of hers.  
  
Her hand _is_ small, but he likes the way that it fits—her palm against his.  
  
"It hasn't killed me yet," he says, and this time he does smile a little.  
  
"No," she says. "It hasn't."  
  
~fin~


End file.
